


The Voice (Apparently) Makes the Legend

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: The Black Wolf of Solitude [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comedy, Multi, Politics, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7883512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gytha Bark-Shod, now called the Black Wolf of Solitude, isn't any gods-touched secret agent. She's a vagrant who got lucky with a nice set of clothing, an iron axe and a lot of flailing around while screaming her head off.</p><p>Except that now she's the Dragonborn.</p><p>There's no way she can convince anyone that her legend is a terrible misunderstanding now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Legend Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. Rewrite of the sequel to ‘The Clothes (Apparently) Make the Hero’.

 

Helgen was one of the few towns Gytha Bark-Shod had never visited during her life as a wandering vagrant. A Legion town, beggars and itinerants often found themselves conscripted into the auxiliaries and in their graves a few seasons later because Captain Julia gave fuck-all training to the sword-fodder. Now she rode in on a slightly crappy gelding alongside General Tullius himself, the legendary Black Wolf of Solitude escorting Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak to a well-deserved execution.

            “The real fun begins when that asshole’s head is on a pike outside the White-Gold Tower,” Tullius murmured to Gytha as they entered the front gate.

            “I know,” Gytha sighed. “Gods, I _know_.”

            “I’ll need you in Markarth. I want the Silver-Bloods dead.”

            “General Tullius, you couldn’t possibly want those mongrels dead more than me.”

            He grunted, acknowledging her point. “Can Elisif spare you for that long?”

            “ _Jarl_ Elisif, soon to be High Queen Elisif,” Gytha corrected. She needed to hammer it into his head that her accidental benefactor deserved all due respect for her rank.

            Beside them, Ulfric made a noise of contempt. Gagged and bound, he was still an intimidating figure. Gytha would breathe easier when he was dead.

            Tullius’ mouth quirked to the side. “I’m not sure if you’re the best or worst thing to happen to Solitude,” the General observed. “I won’t deny your effectiveness though.”

            He cantered ahead to greet Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador. Gytha had killed some of her men once on a mission for Elisif. The witch-elf probably held a grudge.

            “C’mon, Gytha, can’t you get me a pardon?” Lokir, trapped in the same wagon as Ulfric, begged.

            “No,” she told her fellow vagrant sadly. “Even if you hadn’t tried to steal Tullius’ own horse, it’s the carnificina.”

            “How the fuck did Gytha Bark-Shod become the Black Wolf of Solitude anyway?” Lokir sneered bitterly. “I remember you frying birch bark for winter food two years ago.”

            “Luck and the gods’ own sense of humour,” Gytha replied honestly. “But before I came to Honorhall Orphanage, I _was_ the daughter of a wealthy Reachman who happened to own Kolskeggr Mine and was executed by Ulfric’s goons for it.”

            “What kind of real Nord would skulk and spy and live as a beggar?” asked the lowlander Nord who’d asked about the price of her honour.

            “The kind who doesn’t serve a murderous traitor who killed a young man who’d never used more than a fucking belt-knife in his life!” Gytha spat back, glaring at Ulfric pointedly. “Hell, your precious Ulfric had to Shout Torygg down first. _Real_ fucking honourable, that.”

            “It was a fair-“

            “Fuck off, lowlander. I faced Potema Wolf-Queen and her inner council on my own with nothing more than an iron axe and a sacred spell.” She regarded the blond man scornfully. “ _That_ was a fair fight. Ulfric Shouted a boy to the ground to prove he had bigger balls than the rest of Skyrim.”

            God, she sounded just like one of the bloody Companions, boasting about a past victory.

            Ulfric’s eyes, green and sharp as a broken wine bottle, glinted with a hint of respect. Gytha didn’t give a rat’s ass about his respect. She wanted this over and done with so that life could go back to normal.

            Thank the gods they arrived at the courtyard. “Let’s get this over with,” Tullius announced as they dismounted.

            Gytha didn’t pay attention to the calling out of names for the list, being more interested in examining Helgen and the mood of its people. A beggar learned how to read a crowd so they knew whether it was safe to ask for alms or not. The same thing, Captain Aldis explained, allowed her to detect trouble before it began.

            She hadn’t been born an agent of the Jarl of Solitude, but as a Thane, she sure as hell was now.

            Tullius recited the appropriate speech, receiving an angry glare from Ulfric, just before the blond lowlander declared it had been an honour to serve with the Jarl. Gytha supposed it just proved lowlanders were idiots.

            Thankfully, the crowd was on the Legion’s side, and not because they were scared of Captain Julia. There would be no rescues today.

            Turned out the blond lowlander was named Ralof and he knew Quaestor Hadvar, judging by the contemptuous exchange of words between them. Lokir ran and got shot in the back for his troubles. Gytha sighed. He’d be dining with dremora tonight, not the heroes of Sovngarde.

            Everyone got lined up before the headsman’s block and the Priestess of Arkay began last rites. One Stormcloak, wanting to get to the heavenly mead before anyone else, shut her up and strode forward. Gytha had to give him points for guts, insulting the Redguard executioner’s ancestors before being decapitated.

            “As fearless in death as he was in life,” Ralof sighed.

            “It’s easy to be brave when you’ve got no other choice,” Gytha observed. “Otherwise, it’s a lot of screaming, flailing around with an axe and hoping you don’t die in a manner that deprives you of Sovngarde.”

            Ralof burst out laughing. “When you come to Sovngarde, Black Wolf, I’ll give you a drink. Whatever you were before, you understand battle now. It’s a pity you weren’t a Stormcloak.”

            She was oddly touched. It wasn’t Ralof’s fault he’d been gulled by an asshole with delusions of grandeur. “Where are you from?”

            “Riverwood, just down the road.” Ralof sighed sadly. “Black Wolf… could you please take my Amulet of Talos to my sister Gerdur? I think you’re a woman of honour.”

            She stealthily removed the Nord’s amulet. Hell, she’d run a horn to the Shrine of Talos. Why not smuggle an Amulet of Talos to a dead man’s sister? “I’m luckier than honourable,” she admitted.

            “Or the gods have plans for you,” Ralof observed.

            Ulfric was next.

            “I’m sorry you didn’t stay home in Riverwood with your sister,” Gytha sighed. “To have a home…”

            Ralof never managed to reply because a _big fucking black dragon_ showed up and proceeded to lay waste to Helgen. Much to her surprise, the Stormcloak dragged her out of the way and they bolted for the tower together, Ulfric on their heels. Dammit!

            “Shit fuck Eight dammit, what the hell was that?” If there was ever a time to swear, now was it.

            “A dragon. The World-Eater.” Ulfric’s voice was leaden with grief. “The end of days has come.”

            “Given the way my luck runs, I’ll probably choke him when he eats me,” Gytha said sourly.

            Despite the urgency of the situation, Ulfric actually chuckled. “And here I was hoping the Black Wolf of Solitude would cut him down with one strike of her axe and pick her teeth with his bones.”

            “And here I was hoping he’d choke on _you_ and save us the trouble of an execution,” Gytha retorted.

            The Jarl smirked. Gytha’s rage and grief and fear at the world ending coalesced into a terrible whole and she struck him with a solid punch to the face.

            “That’s for the Markarth massacre,” she said flatly as Ulfric reeled back, spitting blood and teeth. “Gods grant I might be able to do that with an axe the next time we meet.”

            And then she bolted for the stairs. Her duty was to survive to warn Elisif and find a way to stop the World-Eater.

…

Quaestor Hadvar was never so happy to see a person in his life as he was when the Black Wolf of Solitude loomed from the smoke of the dragon’s attack. She wielded her famous iron axe, forged by Beirand of Castle Dour, in one hand with blue-white lightning crackling in the other. An ebony axe rode her hip and her leather armour had the well-worn appearance of the seasoned adventurer beneath that black wolf-skin cloak.

            “We need to get out of here, soldier,” she said grimly as she crouched down beside him. “The Stormcloaks are running away, just like everyone else with a hint of sense. Helgen’s lost.”

            That was his tactical assessment too. “I know,” he said sadly, thinking of his fellow Legionnaires dying to buy the civilians time to flee.

            “So let’s go. I swear to the gods I’ll see that overgrown lizard dead for today.”

            Hadvar saw the hard glint of her leaf-green eyes in the scarred face, her ash-brown hair pulled into war-braids, and believed her. “Yes, ma’am.”

            The Black Wolf was cool under fire as they headed for the keep. On the way, they ran into Ralof. “Get out of here, go home and spend the last days with your sister,” she told him sadly.

            “You struck Jarl Ulfric!” Ralof blurted.

            “And my only regret is that I didn’t have my axe in hand when I did it,” Gytha retorted. “He killed my father.”

            She turned from Ralof, leaving the Stormcloak to make his own escape, and Hadvar followed her into the barracks of Helgen Keep. “Grab healing potions and anything else we can use,” she commanded. “I don’t know if we’re going down that thing’s gullet but I have to believe I can warn Jarl Elisif.”

            “The legend is that the Dragonborn will contend with the World-Eater at the end of time,” Hadvar pointed out.

            “Well, here’s to hoping they show up soon. Ulfric’s probably gotten away and that means we’ll have to stop him. _Again_.” She was sliding septims from a card game into her pouch with practiced efficiency.

            Hadvar grabbed a bow, arrows, helmet and healing potions. “Maybe you’re the Dragonborn.”

            “I don’t think the gods hate me _that_ much.” The Black Wolf paused and added, “Then again, maybe they do.”

            The way Gytha slid from commanding and competent to self-deprecating was unlike any hero from the legends. To hear her tell it, her rise to power in Solitude was luck. But she’d banished Potema Wolf-Queen. Led the Companions to massacre the Dark Brotherhood. Singlehandedly executed a dangerous battlemage who led a whole pirate fleet. And even captured Ulfric.

            Any Nord knew the doom-driven and Gytha was definitely one. If she wasn’t the Dragonborn, she’d play a pivotal role in the defeat of Alduin.

            It was Hadvar’s job to keep her alive long enough to fulfil her doom.

            The Stormcloaks barred their way when they reached the torture chamber and Hadvar went on ahead when they were dead, knowing that Gytha would enact her own harsh sense of justice on the torturers. She was as cunning as Jeek of the River but she had an honour to match any Companion’s. Or that was what Vilkas claimed the last time the Hero-Twins drank in Helgen.

            Deeper and deeper they went into the bowels of Helgen Keep, taking what they needed from the corpses of dead Stormcloak and Legionnaire alike. When they came across Stormcloaks in the cave where earth tar was collected, Hadvar thought they were done for.

            Gytha called dual Firebolts and set the earth tar alight. The Stormcloaks died screaming and then she pulled out a Scroll of Blizzard from her beltpouch to quench the blaze.

            They crept past the bear after finding a cart of wine and Black-Briar Mead. Once they reached the cold clean air of outside, they crouched behind a boulder and watched the World-Eater fly away.

            Unlike the heroes of legend, the Black Wolf of Solitude promptly vomited. She ate some clean snow and wiped her lips with a trembling hand.

            “I’ve seen some ugly things but today was the ugliest thing I ever saw in my life,” she observed in a shaky voice.

            “I know,” Hadvar agreed. “We need to warn Riverwood. Then you can go into Whiterun-“

            “And tell Balgruuf,” she finished sourly. “Better let Jorrvaskr know too. They like to fight weird shit for glory.”

            That was a slightly blasphemous – if accurate – description of the Companions, heirs to Ysgramor. “They hold the Black Wolf of Solitude in high esteem,” Hadvar told her. “Vilkas himself described you as having the honour of a Companion.”

            “I don’t give a rat’s ass about honour, glory or any of that lowlander shit,” Gytha said wearily. “My duty is to Solitude and Jarl Elisif the Fair.”

            Hadvar had always preferred the legends of the modest heroes, the ones who rose from low origins to write their names in the story-songs of the skalds. Gytha, whether she knew it or not, was already one of them. Songs about her courage and loyalty to Solitude were sung in taverns throughout Legion-held territory.

            So he kept his silence on the matter and led her to Riverwood. And when he was an old man sitting by the fire and dreaming of Sovngarde, he was able to tell his grandchildren of the day he met the Black Wolf of Solitude.

           


	2. The Scent of a Legend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

Riverwood was a nice little rural village on the border of Falkreath, mostly kept alive by the lumber mill and blacksmith. It had one thing up on Dragon Bridge – a general store run by an Imperial and his slightly blowsy sister. Hadvar’s uncle Alvor was the blacksmith and apparently Ralof’s sister Gerdur ran the lumber mill in addition to being headwoman. The Sleeping Giant – a grandiose name for an inn that managed to be shabbier than the Four Shields – was owned by a sharp-faced Breton woman who tried too hard at the whole village innkeeper thing. At least the cook and barman Orgnar was suitably surly.

            It took some talking but Hadvar agreed to keep quiet about her identity as the Black Wolf of Solitude. Gytha had bundled her cloak into a makeshift pack tied with cord, concealing her ebony axe and the silver wolf signet all Thanes of Solitude wore. Dusk was coming and she needed to rest.

            “I’ll hire a room at the inn,” she told the Legionnaire. “I’ll need to leave at dawn.”

            “Understood, ma’am.” Hadvar nearly saluted. The villagers were looking at them curiously.

            “Hadvar!” Alvor, a burly blond man with the same pleasant homeliness as his nephew, greeted him cheerfully. “What are you doing in Riverwood? Are you on leave?”

            The Legionnaire took a deep breath. “You better call a village meeting, Uncle Alvor. A dragon attacked Helgen.”

            “A _what_?” Alvor’s eyes narrowed. “Have you been drinking, boy?”

            “He’s telling the truth.” Ralof, who also came from here, limped into view leaning on the arm of a tall, sinewy blonde woman who had to be Gerdur by the resemblance. “We need to warn Jarl Balgruuf.”

            “I guess the World-Eater wasn’t in the mood for-“ Hadvar begun, only to be elbowed in the ribs by Gytha.

            “That thing was the biggest, blackest, meanest bastard I ever saw,” she announced. “Went through the Legion like fire through summer-dry grass. So until we know exactly what the hell we’re going to do, how about we pretend the civil war isn’t happening, hmm?”

            Gerdur’s expression was eloquent in its satisfaction of a few dead Legionnaires. “Who are you?”

            “Gytha,” she responded shortly.

            “The Black Wolf of Solitude,” Ralof added. “I… can’t say I like her allegiance but she is, in her own way, a woman of honour.”

            Gytha buried her face in her hands and sighed. So much for discretion.

            “I’m an exhausted, filthy traveller who has a hard day’s trip ahead of her tomorrow,” she said when she raised her gaze to the villagers. “The World-Eater hasn’t eaten us yet but we need to prepare for fires. Until I go kicking and screaming down his throat, I’ll make the assumption the Dragonborn will be along to kick his ass and act accordingly.”

            If she knew anything from her life as a vagrant, it was that in a crisis, someone needed to be in charge. Since coming to Solitude, Gytha had picked up a few tricks, even if she wasn’t any kind of leader or saviour. Villagers had common sense – they just had to be calm to exercise it.

            “My cellar is big enough to fit everyone in the village,” Alvor stoutly declared.

            “Fantastic. Put some tools in there so you can cut yourself out.” Gytha wiped her filthy forehead. “If you’ll pardon me, I need to wash, eat and sleep. Tomorrow’s not gonna be a fun day.”

            Before anyone could approach her, she strode towards the inn. Hopefully she had enough septims for what she needed.

…

The next day saw her travelling through the dawn mists towards Whiterun. Delphine had been sympathetic, sneaking her out before anyone could jump on her for a tale of her deeds. A pair of wolves interrupted the journey briefly – Gytha, out of respect for Kyne, skinned and butchered them. Then there was the Argonian thief around the corner. He took one look at the wolf-skin cloak and iron axe before stepping back with his hands held up. Maybe that so-called legend of hers was occasionally useful.

            The Companions Farkas and Aela were returning from some hunt. “Hail, Black Wolf of Solitude,” greeted the Huntress with a glint of good humour in her eye. “What brings you to Whiterun?”

            “Dragons,” Gytha replied shortly. “Please bring the Circle up to Dragonsreach. I don’t particularly fancy telling the tale of Helgen twice.”

            “We owe Torvar an apology,” Farkas rumbled. “He saw a dragon and we thought he was drunk as usual.”

            “Must be pretty damn good mead if it can get a Companion drunk and seeing dragons on a regular basis,” Gytha observed dryly.

            “Honningbrew is the best,” the big Companion confirmed. “Come on in with us, we’ll go up with you.”

            The gates were locked and an officious-looking guard stood in front of them. “No one is allowed inside by orders of the Jarl,” he announced.

            “Not even Farkas of the Hero-Twins, Aela the Huntress and Gytha, the Black Wolf of Solitude?” Aela asked mildly.

            “Err, I, an exception can be made for citizens of good standing,” the guard stammered, getting out of the way and calling for the gates to be opened.

            “Just so you know, dragons fly, so locking the gates won’t do jack against the fire-breathing beast that just went over your walls,” Gytha told him dryly. “You’d do better to have buckets of water and horn signals.”

            “I will forward your suggestions onto Commander Caius,” the guard responded.

            “That means nothin’ will get done,” Farkas said with something that might actually be sarcasm.

            They entered Whiterun where Idolaf Battle-Born was discussing an order with Adrienne Avenicci for the Legion. Gods but Gytha hated the Battle-Borns.

            “I need a new bow and arrows,” Gytha sighed. “I lost mine at Helgen.”

            Her comment drew the attention of Idolaf and Adrienne. _Dammit._

            “I’ve got a few bows in stock,” the blacksmith said, nodding to the Companions. “Good steel arrows too.”

            “If it isn’t Gytha Bark-Shod, wandering around like she has a semblance of honour,” Idolaf sneered. “Steal anything lately?”

            “One, I didn’t steal that fucking necklace of Birgitte’s. Two, quit pretending you were a mighty Legionnaire when your job mostly consisted of guarding the granary in Solitude until you injured your back while drunk. And three, yesterday I saw the World-Eater decimate Helgen.” Gytha silently blessed those Legion records Captain Aldis got for her as Idolaf went white.

            “And four, whatever she was before, now she is the Black Wolf of Solitude and Thane to Jarl Elisif the Fair,” Aela added pointedly. “You would do well to give her the honour that she deserves.”

            “I don’t need anyone pulling rank for me,” Gytha muttered to the Huntress.

            “You have earned your rank and titles honourably,” she retorted. “For your actions against the Dark Brotherhood and the destruction of the Night Mother alone, not to mention your banishment of Potema Wolf-Queen, you would stand in the Circle if you were a Companion.”

            Idolaf’s eyes were round as snowberries, his cheeks now tomato-red. Bloody hell. Now he was probably going to start grovelling or something.

            “Look, I didn’t do it and damned if I know who did. If you drop it, I will.” She’d be in and out of Whiterun on a regular basis, so she needed the Battle-Borns to leave her the hell alone.

            “Uh, of course, my lady.” Idolaf actually bowed and took himself off to bully someone else.

            “Great. Now they’ll just let it go because I rank most of them,” Gytha observed sourly.

            “The Battle-Borns’ acquaintance with honour, for the most part, is a nod at best,” Aela said. “I know you don’t believe your actions to be that impressive, Gytha. But you need to forget the vagrant and embrace the Thane.”

            “If it means becoming like Olfrid Battle-Born, I’ll pass.”

            “No worries about being like him,” Farkas assured her. “You actually fight.”

            Gytha pinched her nose. “Let’s go. We need to collect your friends and head up to Dragonsreach.”

            By the time they reached Jorrvaskr, everyone knew that the Black Wolf of Solitude was in town. So much for being Elisif’s secret agent or something. Oh, and that the dragons were back and ready to eat the world. Gytha privately thought that the ranting Heimskr would likely give Alduin indigestion because gods knew his preaching turned her stomach.

            “Are you going to kill the World-Eater?” one of the kids, a Redguard girl, asked scornfully.

            “Only if he chokes on me,” Gytha observed with a sigh.

            Jorrvaskr was a blessed sanctuary. The Companions were apparently sitting down to lunch, if the platters of cold meat, bread and cheese were anything to go by. Kodlak Whitemane, the Harbinger, was looking decidedly seedy today. “How went the hunt?” he called out to Farkas and Aela.

            “We killed the giants at Bleakwind Basin and there’s a cache of mammoth meat to be collected,” Aela reported. “More importantly, Harbinger, the Black Wolf of Solitude brings news of Helgen.”

            Gytha saluted, fist to chest. She might think the Companions were a bit too attached to their precious honour but she also knew that she didn’t want to piss off the Heirs of Ysgramor. “I need the Circle to come up with me to Dragonsreach if they can be spared,” she told the old man grimly. “Helgen isn’t a tale I wish to repeat twice.”

            “Why are the Companions required to attend a report to Jarl Balgruuf?” Skjor asked, spearing a bit of meat with a dagger of Skyforge Steel.

            “I’m sorry, I thought you’d be interested in the actions of a dragon because, sure as shit draws flies, one’s going to attack Whiterun sooner or later,” Gytha retorted. “Oh, and if the legends are right, the big black bastard was the World-Eater himself.”

            “So, my dreams become clear,” Kodlak murmured to himself.

            Then he looked at the Companions. “Skjor, go to Dragonsreach with Gytha. Vilkas, I want you in the archives finding what you can on dragons. Farkas, Aela, I will leave it to you to decide whether to stay here or head up to the Jarl’s palace.”

            “Torvar better go with Skjor,” Farkas rumbled. “He saw the dragon yesterday.”

            “I _told_ you I wasn’t drunk,” muttered the ponytailed lowlander.

            “And we’re sorry for doubting your word,” Aela said quietly. “Kodlak, will you…?”

            “No.” The warrior sighed heavily. “I’m not sure I’ll make it up the stairs.”

            Gytha knew that the Circle were werewolves after the fight against the Dark Brotherhood. From the looks of it, the whelps hadn’t left when the truth was revealed. She wondered if Kodlak’s sickness had something to do with the werewolf blood.

            “I’ll take Ria and Athis to collect the mammoth meat,” Aela announced. “If dragons are about, we may find it hard to hunt.”

            “I’ll head up with Skjor, Torvar and Gytha,” Farkas rumbled.

            Kodlak nodded in satisfaction. “Njada, I want you and Eorlund to figure out what shields best repel fire.”

            The white-haired woman nodded. “Yes, Harbinger.”

            “Good.” The old man regarded Gytha. “We would be honoured if you stayed at our hall tonight.”

            “That’ll depend on how long Jarl Balgruuf keeps me,” Gytha responded. “It’s going to be a long few days.”

            “More than a few days.” Kodlak’s blue gaze was penetrating. “And no matter what happens, Black Wolf of Solitude, you will be at the heart of it. You are doom-driven.”

            Gytha would rather not be. Sometimes she wondered if she should have refused to wear that nice new dress for Taarie. But such was life. “Please don’t compare me to Ysgramor or Ysmir. I’m just someone with a lot of luck and a little skill.”

            “You are more than that.” But Kodlak let the matter drop. “May the gods watch over your battles, Gytha.”

            “I’d rather they didn’t,” she muttered. “They have a warped sense of humour.”

…

“You have got to be shitting me.”

            For a doom-driven hero of legend, Gytha had an astonishingly foul mouth when pressed and stressed. Balgruuf, never loathe to co-opt someone else’s asset, had just asked her to go fetch a relic from Bleak Falls Barrow, an old site of the Dragon Cult which ruled in the days before Ysgramor.

            To the Jarl’s credit, he grimaced. “I know you are a Thane of Solitude, Gytha, but you are also competent. Farengar is one of the few Nords to study the dragons outside of the Greybeards. If he says we need the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow, then we need the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow.”

            The scarred agent’s jaw set stubbornly. “If you don’t support Jarl Elisif at the next Moot after this, so help me…”

            Skjor was surprised that she dared speak to the Jarl in such a manner – and that Balgruuf allowed her. There were currents to the conversation that the Companion couldn’t read.

            “I have not forgotten my bargains,” Balgruuf rumbled. “I have also not forgotten the price of them-“

            “You’re playing politics while the dragons burn everything in sight!”

            “I’m keeping the Stormcloaks from attacking me so that a solution to the dragon problem can be found!”

            Gytha threw up her hands. “I’ll do it. Just so you know, the last time I saw Ulfric, he was spitting teeth because I just punched him in the face. You’re not the only one with an axe to grind, Jarl Balgruuf and I’m not the only one who wants that bastard in the ground.”

            Balgruuf’s ice-blue eyes glittered. “Don’t let your grudges overrule what must be done for the greater good. You’re dismissed.”

            Gytha’s salute was curt and she stalked out of the wizard’s workshop. The four Companions who’d accompanied her were a little politer with theirs before joining her.

            “I’m a survivor of the Markarth Incident,” Gytha said as they headed for the great double-doors. “My father was one of the Reach landowners executed by Ulfric at the Silver-Bloods’ word, just so they could take his mine. I wound up in Honorhall because, of course, my Reach uncle couldn’t raise a Nord child.”

            “We know,” Skjor said simply. “Kodlak has been very interested in you and so we did some investigation.”

            “Please don’t spout that doom-driven crap,” she said wearily. “I’m tired. I’ve had three hours’ sleep in two days. I saw a fucking dragon decimate the Legion and completely fuck up our chance to end this war once and for all.”

            The veneer of politesse that Gytha maintained had worn thin and Skjor could see the ragged beggar raised in the most corrupt city in Skyrim. But he could also detect the twisted chain of events that brought that vagrant to honour and power. Wyrd had its hand on the Black Wolf of Solitude whether she liked it or not.

            “I’ll have Tilma give you a sleeping draught,” he promised.

            “Thanks. Once this Dragonstone’s found, I’m off to Solitude. Elisif needs to be warned.”

            Some bards had written romantic overtones to Gytha’s loyalty in the songs, no doubt inspired by the High Rock romances of knights and noblewomen. Skjor smelt absolutely no desire in the worry that the agent exuded – she was concerned for a friend and the city she called home.

            “I’d like to thank you for your discretion in a particular matter,” he murmured. “You could have done a lot of damage with that information.”

            The Reach Nord regarded him oddly. “You serve one of the old gods of the Druadachs. Why in the name of the gods would I go blathering about things that are none of my business and wind up getting hunted for my troubles?”

            “Still, thank you.” Skjor regarded her, wondering what Kodlak had seen to order the Companions to treat her as an ally. A cure for his beast blood, perhaps? “Jorrvaskr is always open to you. You wouldn’t be the first Thane to serve in the Circle.”

            Her smile was wry. “I’m sorry, but fighting weird shit for honour and glory isn’t one of my hobbies.”

            “Oh?” Skjor looked down at the slender woman. “You-“

            “Got thrown into a bunch of situations thanks to bad luck, miscommunication and the gods’ own warped sense of humour,” she interrupted. “I’m not doom-driven. I’m not the bloody chosen of the gods or anything like that. I’m just someone who owes her Jarl a hell of a lot.”

            Skjor let the matter rest as they were almost at Jorrvaskr. “Well, you’re always welcome to our hall.”

            “Thanks. I don’t think Balgruuf’s too happy with me but if he-“ She fell silent. “Never mind. I just want a bit of food, that sleeping draught and a bed.”

            “Of course.” Skjor let her enter the mead-hall, Torvar on her heels, before glancing at his fellow werewolves.

            “I’d like to know Kodlak’s interest in her,” he finally said.

            “As would we all,” Aela agreed. “She’s wrong about the doom-driven bit though. Have you noticed how she smells different?”

            Farkas nodded. “She smells like smoke and spices.”

            The big man had the subtlest sense of smell in the pack. Aela could pick up scents quicker than him, but Farkas could differentiate between aromas better than anyone else.

            “We should definitely watch her and stand as her allies,” Skjor decreed. “I have a feeling it’s better to be her friend than her enemy.”

            Because if the twisted chain of events reached what he believed was its inevitable conclusion, Gytha would shake the foundations of the earth before she was done.


	3. The Legend Raises Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. There will be mentions and cameos of my Aureliiverse characters, but only in passing. Also, head-canon for the Reach, Reach Nords in particular.

 

“Ma’am, I thought you were going back to Solitude?”

            “I will be once I run a little errand that’s apparently supposed to advance our understanding of dragons,” Gytha observed to Hadvar as she plonked herself on a bench next to him. “What do you know of Bleak Falls Barrow?”

            “Full of draugr,” the Legionnaire promptly answered. “Used to have nightmares about them as a kid, that they’d come down and drag me away.”

            Gytha grimaced. “Gods, but I hate undead.”

            “I know what you mean. Most of the draugr were preserved by the priest-kings who served the dragons, according to the old stories.” Hadvar drained his mug of mead. “Still, won’t be nothing compared to Potema Wolf-Queen, yeah?”

            “That’s gonna haunt me until the day I die.” Gytha accepted the mug of mead that Orgnar brought around. Gods knew she could afford a drink or three. Hell, she needed them.

            Ralof, sitting at another table, laughed. “’Haunt me’. You have a way with words, Black Wolf.”

            “For the love of the old gods and new, could you _not_ call me that?” Gytha asked testily.

            Ralof smirked. “I could repeat some of the choicer phrases the Stormcloaks are using.”

            “I doubt they’d be worse than what I got called as a beggar.” She drained her mug – Black-Briar Mead. Shit, that stuff was awful. Give her Frostfire or Honningbrew or even the old Reach Juniper mead.

            It was surreal to be sitting down with a Legionnaire and bantering with a Stormcloak rebel. But Ralof wasn’t a bad guy, only misguided.

            Hadvar and Ralof exchanged glances. “We should come with you,” the Quaestor finally said. “Everyone knows the Barrow was the burial place of an old Dragon priest-king.”

            Gytha arched an eyebrow. “You’ll set aside the civil war? I’m firmly on the Empire’s side but if my informant’s correct, what’s in that tomb is more important than politics in the short term.”

            “You are doom-driven,” Hadvar said simply. “And in this, Skyrim is more important than politics. It is Evgir Unslaad, Season Unending, war without end until either time ends or the World-Eater does.”

            The lowlanders had a lot of myths about the coming of the World-Eater. “I’m not doom-driven. If we’re lucky, one of the Companions will be the Dragonborn – you know, all that weird shit for glory – and I can get back to my real job.”

            Ralof just shook his head. Gods but lowlanders were strange.

            “Wyrd has a way of making you eat your words,” the blond lowlander observed, finishing a small ale. “When do we go?”

            “How much have you had to drink?”

            “Couple mugs and Ralof just had the small ale,” Hadvar responded.

            “Then armour up and let’s go. I’m neglecting my duties to run an errand for a Jarl who’s trying to play politics.”

            If Balgruuf was going to try and wriggle out of the deal he and Elisif made, she’d see that Hrongar became Jarl of Whiterun. Gytha didn’t have a lot of qualms compared to the Companions but she despised oathbreakers.

            Within half an hour, they were heading up towards Bleak Falls Barrow, supplied by Lucan Valerius who confirmed the bandits had stolen his Golden Claw. Since Gytha needed gold for the trip back to Solitude, she was happy to get it back for him.

            The bandits infested a watchtower and the stairs leading up to the tomb. Hadvar dispatched them with Legion efficiency while Ralof demonstrated the skill of a man familiar with the warhammer he carried. “If being a soldier ceases to appeal to you, you could take up cattle slaughter,” Gytha told him.

            “It’s no different to using a lumber axe to split firewood,” he pointed out. “And I am a Nord – two-handed weapons are in my blood.”

            “We’re all Nords here, sunshine,” Gytha murmured. “Just that the two of you are crazy lowlanders while I’m a Reach Nord.”

            She looted the dead. It was second nature to her by now. Then they dragged the corpses into a pile and burned them.

            “I’ll have you know my mother was a Falkreath Nord and my father a Reach Nord,” Hadvar corrected mildly.

            “Okay, so you’re half-smart.” Gytha grinned at the Legionnaire.

            “Heh, if blood matters, my great-grandfather was the bastard son of Balgruuf’s great-great-grandfather,” Ralof chuckled. “That’s how we became the headmen of Riverwood.”

            Gytha shook her head. “I never did get the bastardry thing you lowlanders have going on. Up in the Reach, before the Silver-Bloods took over, children belonged to the clan whether their parents were married or not. We also counted succession through the mother or so Uncle Ainethach always claimed.”

            “Jarl Igmund rules in Markarth,” Hadvar pointed out naively.

            “Only because the Silver-Bloods don’t quite have the manpower to take over,” Gytha said sourly. “They only own most of the Reach through blood and lies.”

            She pushed towards the heavy doors. “Let’s go. The sooner we find this Dragonstone, the sooner I can go home.”

…

_“We make our own Dooms.”_

            Ralof recalled the old proverb that his grandfather used to spout by the fireside in the long winter as Gytha opened the doors with a shove. He wondered if Jarl Ulfric and the Silver-Bloods knew the saying or if it was only the Whiterun Nords who did so.

            Amongst the Stormcloaks, the Markarth Incident was a time of great betrayal and tragedy at the hands of the Empire. They’d fought to save the Reach from the depraved Madanach and his Forsworn in return for the right to worship Talos as He deserved, only to be stabbed in the back by the dishonourable Igmund. That was how Ulfric, Galmar and the other veterans told the tale.

            Until meeting the Black Wolf of Solitude, he’d never considered the other side of the story.

            The Silver-Bloods were almost as corrupt as the Black-Briars – but they worshipped Talos, who’d turned His hand to every weapon needed to unite Tamriel. They were better than the Forsworn. Right?

            He mulled over this as they executed bandits, took whatever was useful and went deeper into the tomb. Gytha hadn’t fought much during the ambush that took Ulfric and his personal guard but now he saw her in action, he realised that she could hold her own in combat. Some would argue using magic in one hand and an axe in the other was cheating but… Well, the Stormsword surrounded herself with a Lightning Cloak and wielded a broadsword, so he wasn’t going to throw stones.

            They paused for lunch after killing Arvel the Quick and retrieved the Golden Claw. Cold meat, cheese, fresh bread and a jug of mead to share between the three of them. “Do you support the Forsworn?” Ralof suddenly blurted.

            Gytha’s scarred features tightened. “Madanach was alright during the occupation of Markarth. But when the clans that would become the Forsworn fled for the hills, they turned against everyone. Reach Nord children born to those clans are now sacrificed to the Left-Hand Gods – the Daedric Princes, you call them. So no, I don’t support the Forsworn.”

            “Grandpa always said that turning away from the Right-Hand Gods cost Madanach his crown,” Hadvar agreed. “You work best with both hands, no matter which one you favour, yeah?”

            “Yeah.” Gytha ate some bread. “The old gods of the Reach are deities like Kyne, Hircine, Namira, Dibella, Nocturnal, Azura, Herma-Mora and Arkay. The new gods are the rest of the Aedra and Daedra. The Left-Hand Gods are Daedric Princes, as I said, and the Right-Hand Gods are the Aedra. I never learned much more than that because Dad was killed.”

            Ralof twisted a bit of bread into a nervous knot. “What about Talos?”

            Her leaf-green eyes reflected the light almost like a cat’s. “The Cursed God. He was a Reach Nord, Dad always said, who stole the divine mantle of Shor Dead-God and built an empire on the bones of the Reach clans.”

            “But you don’t deny His divinity.”

            “No. He’s not the first mortal to steal godhood and I wager he won’t be the last. Who knows – maybe the Last Dragonborn will take it from him!” From the sounds of it, Gytha relished the idea.

            _“We make our own Dooms.”_

            Ralof rose to his feet. “Let’s get this relic you need.”

…

Gytha was so glad to see the dusk-shrouded skies once more. The burial chamber of the priest-king had been eerie as hell with the glowing letters and powerful draugr. At least the burial goods were decent and Ralof was enchanted by the cold-edged warhammer taken from the draugr’s corpse.

            He was unhappy with the conversation they’d had. She wasn’t unsurprised. People hated being forced to think, especially when it came to someone they deemed an enemy. With people like Ralof, she had to remember the Stormcloaks were just ordinary folk with a sprinkling of fanatics herself.

            They skirted the edge of Lake Ilinata and made their way to the Guardian Stones. Hadvar and Ralof touched the Warrior Stone while she hesitated between Mage and Thief before choosing the former. Her spells were her weakest skill and with dragons on the loose, she needed the ability to attack from a distance.

            It was an awkward walk back to Riverwood. Hadvar peeled off from them at the smithy with his share of the loot, leaving Gytha and Ralof looking at anything but each other.

            “Thanks for your help,” she said finally. “Keep the warhammer. You earned it.”

            “’We make our own Dooms’,” he murmured, obviously quoting someone.

            “Oh-kay.” Gytha took a deep breath. “Um, I hope we never meet on a battlefield. Or something.”

            He regarded her with those sky-blue eyes. “You will kill Ulfric and the Silver-Bloods one day, won’t you?”

            “I don’t know. I’ll settle for making it happen though.” She owed him that much honesty.

            “Igmund is a terrible Jarl.”

            “Yeah, I know. One of many reasons why I never returned to Markarth.”

            “I wish I still thought you’d sold your honour to the Imperials,” he said plaintively.

            “I wish I still thought you were just another idiot lowlander,” she observed softly.

            She _liked_ Ralof. He was loyal, tough and smarter than he looked. Hell, she could even see in a way why he joined the Stormcloaks. She didn’t _like_ Ulfric’s militia but she could understand.

            It was always lousy when an enemy became a person because it made it that much harder to fight them.

            “You should go,” Ralof said, turning away. “May you die with a sword in your hands.”

            That was probably the best she could hope for from a Stormcloak. “You too.”

            Then she took the Golden Claw and entered Lucan’s still-open shop. It was best she returned to Whiterun tonight so she could go to Solitude tomorrow. Elisif needed to be warned both about the dragons and the possibility Balgruuf would renege on his deal.

            Lucan gave her a few hundred septims and traded her share of the loot from Bleak Falls Barrow for the rest of his ready coin and some steel arrows. Gytha thanked him and left Riverwood as Secunda rose above the treetops.

            The walk to Whiterun sapped the last of her strength and she barely made it back to Jorrvaskr. The Companions had a keen interest in her and Gytha would like to know what it was. Shame that she had so many other things on her plate – she might have actually joined up with them if she didn’t owe Elisif so much.

            Of course, when the Black Wolf of Solitude woke up the next morning, she found _another_ clusterfuck that she had to deal with.


End file.
